


just another hammer to fall

by folignos



Category: Inception (2010)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 13:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folignos/pseuds/folignos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a Looper. That isn't all he is, but it might as well be.<br/>Looper AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just another hammer to fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homesickblues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homesickblues/gifts).



> So uh, this happened. It's entirely Rachel's fault.  
> Just as a note, I haven't yet seen Looper, and therefore this is probably not even close to the movie. DO NOT JUDGE ME.  
> Title from Queen's Hammer to Fall.

_Arthur is a Looper._

_That’s not all he is, but it might as well be._

_He has, to date, personally killed seventeen people who aren’t even born yet._

_That’s not the whole story, but it might as well be._

**_-_ **

**_Then_ **

He calls himself a Looper, but really he’s a killer. That’s the most basic way of putting it, taking all the spit and polish off a job that’s not even as old as he is. He kills people for money.

The old him would have balked at that, shied away and run back to the army, where he was still paid to kill people, but he could at least pretend there was a sort of honour in that. [It got harder and harder to pretend, like everything else, but Arthur’s always been good at lying to himself. Almost as good as he is at killing people.]

He stopped hesitating after the first kill, stopped pretending to care after the third, stopped having nightmares after the seventh. He’s always been a fast learner, and since then, they’re nothing to him, a distant figure on their knees. Sometimes they cry. Sometimes they beg. Sometimes they say nothing, just get to their feet slowly, turn and face him, make him kill them while he looks them in the eyes. Those are the ones he shoots in the chest, instead of the head.

Kill number eighteen was supposed to be simple, just like kills eight to seventeen, one shot and then he goes back to his apartment, drinks a warm beer, eats three day old Chinese food and waits for the money to materialise into his account.

He didn’t bank on kill number eighteen arriving armed.

He fires a fraction of a second after Eighteen does, and then throws himself off the road, curving his shoulders so he rolls when he lands and he’s on his feet again, knee high grass all around him and a gun pointed at his sternum. His own gun is pointed at Eighteen’s face, and he’s not even breathing heavily. Eighteen’s face is bruised, bloody, split lip and black eye. He spits blood at his feet, and grins, showing blood lined teeth. ‘Hello, darling,’ he says, and holsters his gun. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’

Arthur doesn’t fire. Not immediately, anyway. He edges around until he’s out of the grass, puts another couple of feet between him and Eighteen, makes sure the sun is out of his face before lowering his own weapon to point at the ground. ‘Why were you armed?’ he asks, eventually, eyes flicking up and down over Eighteen. He’s about an inch, maybe an inch and a half shorter than Arthur, but a lot broader across the shoulders, and he probably has twenty pounds on Arthur. Arthur shifts his weight, just slightly, bracing himself on his back leg.

Eighteen grins, and gestures to the gun by his side. ‘Boss didn’t know about this one.’ He winks, lewd, and takes a step forward. Arthur’s gun is pointed at his head again before he even thinks it, and Eighteen stops in place, hands very deliberately where Arthur can see them. ‘You’re not going to shoot me.’

‘You’re very confident for a man with a gun pointed at him.’

Eighteen shrugs, grins again. Arthur notes that he’s wearing hideous lime green sneakers, and only doesn’t react because he’s a professional, and professionals don’t notice shoe colour before they kill someone. He also notices the dark curl of a tattoo peeking out from his shirt collar. ‘Insider knowledge,’ Eighteen admits, and Arthur doesn’t like the look in his eye when he says that. ‘I’m Daniel.’

Something deep in Arthur’s memory flutters at that, of a Daniel from a long time ago with an accent and drowned in khaki, but it’s out of his reach, trapped behind frosted glass, and so he lowers the gun again, just slightly, and asks who Daniel’s boss is.

He smirks, and says ‘Classified.’

Arthur grinds his teeth a little. ‘What’s your insider knowledge?’

‘Classified.’

‘What makes you think I won’t shoot you anyway, for pissing me off?’ Daniel opens his mouth, and Arthur cocks his gun, warning. ‘Don’t even think about saying classified.’ Daniel’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click of teeth, but he’s still smirking. Arthur thinks. ‘Why shouldn’t I shoot you?’

‘Because you want to know who I am. You want to know why I’m here, and you want to know how I know that your name is Arthur DeSilva, and that you were in the army for ten years before you became a looper.’ Another grin, this one sharper than before, somehow. ‘Can’t interrogate a dead man.’

Arthur fires the gun between Daniel’s feet, and he jumps, takes a few steps back. ‘Next one’s going in your foot. Let’s try again. How about a different question? Why does your boss want you dead?’

Daniel opens his mouth to speak, when Arthur feels the static of an incoming kill. The hairs on his neck stands up, and something in his gut tells him to run, so he does. Runs straight for his truck, Daniel forgotten until he wrenches open the passenger door and clambers in after Arthur, still smiling, eyes glazed with the adrenaline rush of someone who’s a little too used to being shot at for Arthur to want hanging around. He’s just starting the engine when they materialize at the end of the dirt road he’s parked on, and he throws the car into reverse, not knowing who the guys all in black with M-16s firing at him are, but sure he doesn’t want to stick around and find out. ‘As soon as we lose these guys, you’re talking,’ he snarls, glancing sideways at Daniel.

‘If you say so, darling,’ he says, drawing out the last word, and it sounds like history. Arthur grapples for more than the faint memory of combat uniforms, English accent and the smell of gunpowder, but comes up short. He throws a look sideways again as he screeches across a crossroads and houses start springing up as he races back towards the city. His rear windshield shatters, and they both duck, the truck skidding onto the other side of the road for a second.

When he gets a couple of miles into the city, he throws the truck into a parking spot and abandons it in favour of running through the back alleys that he knows like he knows himself, and Daniel manages to keep up, feet pounding as he follows him through narrow streets, through flimsy cork doors until he slows to a walk, breathing heavily as he shoulders through another door and pads up the stairs to one of the properties he owns in the city. It’s a burn safehouse, in that when it’s compromised, he torches it, so he figures it’s safe to bring Daniel here. He’s going to get his answers.

The door’s open, and he kicks it shut after Daniel comes in and sits down on one of the two chairs by the window. For the first time, he looks nervous, like he doesn’t know what’s going to happen next. Arthur tugs on his bottom lip with his teeth, thinking. ‘You know who they were,’ he says. It’s not a question.

‘Educated guess says they were sent by the same person who sent me.’

‘Your boss.’ Daniel nods. ‘Whose name you can’t tell me.’ Another nod. ‘Wonderful. Anything you can tell me, James Bond?’ He shrugs this time, one shoulder jerking up and down lopsidedly.

Arthur rolls his eyes, and Daniel smiles at that, not a smirk, not a grin, but an honest to god smile that’s somehow more genuine than anything else he’s said or done since he appeared in front of Arthur. He tries another line of questioning. ‘How do you know me?’

‘Biblically,’ Daniel says, back to smug grins and winks, and Arthur restrains himself from rolling his eyes again.

‘Very funny. You know, I can still shoot you.’ He unholsters his gun, but doesn’t point it at Daniel.

Daniel cocks an eyebrow at that. ‘If you haven’t shot me by now, you’re not going to.’

‘You don’t know-’

‘ _Yes_ , Arthur. I do. I’m from the fucking future, stop being so bloody dense.’ Arthur sighs, long suffering already, somehow. ‘I know  _you_. Can’t you just accept that, for once in your life?’ Arthur doesn’t say anything at that, just holsters his gun and sits in the chair opposite Daniel.

‘What year are you from?’ he says, propping his ankle up on the other knee and leaning back.

‘You don’t know?’ Daniel says, frowning.

Arthur shakes his head. ‘It doesn’t tend to come up in conversation when the conversation is me shooting someone in the head.’

Daniel tips his head in acknowledgement. ‘What year is it now?’

‘2042,’ Arthur says, getting up from his chair to look out the window. The streets below are clear, but he can hear sirens in the distance, like always. The city is not kind to strangers, never has been.

‘I’m from about twenty years in the future.’ Daniel says, and Arthur turns to look at him.

‘That soon?’

Daniel nods, before getting up and standing next to Arthur, looking out across the city. Down below them there’s a lanky kid in too big clothes. Daniel watches him for a few seconds. ‘What day is it?’

‘Tuesday,’ Arthur says, absently. He’s watching the kid digging in his pockets for a lighter.

‘What date is it, smartarse?’ Daniel snaps, eyes fixed on the kid. Arthur looks at him, chewing the inside of his cheek in thought.

‘June 24th,’ he says eventually. ’Why?’

Daniel moves fast. He spins round, spies a scrap of paper lying on the floor, and he pulls a broken off pencil stub out of one of his pockets, scribbling something on the paper before folding it up and pushing it into one of Arthur’s pants pockets. Arthur pushes away, knee jerk reaction to someone getting too close, but Daniel grabs his wrist with his free hand and holds him there, just for a second, other hand tucked into Arthur’s pocket. ‘Just… keep it. You’ll understand, eventually.’ Arthur catches his bottom lip between his teeth again, worries at it, nods.

They stand like that for a couple of seconds, and Arthur registers just how close Daniel is, close enough to see that his eyes are some curious mix of blue and green flecks, close enough that Daniel’s hand on his wrist just pulls them close together, and then, suddenly, Daniel’s gone. There’s cool air on his wrist, even colder since the body heat is gone, and he’s leaving the apartment at a run, and Arthur’s following, doesn’t really know why, he just  _is_ , down the stairs and through the shattered cork door from before and left into the alley. The kid from before is still standing there, smoking, and he looks the same kind of familiar as Daniel, sand and gun oil and the feel of sweat pooling in the small of his back. His hair is too long, falling into his face, but Arthur sees it military short, sees dust covered uniform where there’s ripped jeans and oversized t-shirt, and he still can’t remember the kid properly, just gets a vague sense of his old life and the smell of war. Daniel’s heading towards him, towards the kid, and suddenly his gun is drawn, and Arthur has no fucking clue what’s going on. ‘Daniel!’ he shouts, and the kid looks up, sees the gun, and starts to back away, dropping his half-finished smoke on the ground. Daniel doesn’t react.  At some point, Arthur drew his own weapon, and it hangs loosely in his grasp. Daniel’s gun is pointing at the kids head, and he’s stopped backing away, eyes fixed on the barrel. Arthur comes up behind them, gun held in a two handed grip, pointed at Daniel. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he demands, and Daniel looks over his shoulder, smiles grimly.

‘You still not gonna shoot me, love?’

‘Haven’t decided yet,’ Arthur says. ‘You gonna shoot him?’

‘Nah.’ Daniel says, decisively. ‘You’ll shoot me first.’

‘Let me guess. Classified.’ Arthur doesn’t know what’s going on, but he keeps his gun steady, keeps his hands steady, one eye on Daniel, one eye on the kid, who’s pale but calm, collected, like he’s had a gun in his face before.

Daniel grins. ‘You’re learning.’ And then he takes the safety off the gun.

Arthur took the safety off his own gun half a conversation ago. ‘Don’t make me do this, Daniel. I still want answers.’

Daniel winks at him. ‘Sorry darling. It was always going to end up like this.’ He fires.

So does Arthur. Daniel misses. Arthur doesn’t.

One shot in the back of the head. Like how it should have happened in the first place. Daniel drops, the gun clatters into the gutter. The kid is still standing there, still looking at Daniel. Arthur notices the chain around his neck, the way he stands, and pictures him with short hair, sand coloured fatigues, and things lock into place. ‘Hey, kid.’ He flinches, his eyes flick to Arthur and suddenly, he stands up a little straighter. ‘I know you.’ The kid nods.

‘2033, sir. Libya.’ His accent isn’t American, might be English, might be Australian, Arthur’s not sure. It’s faint, deliberately inflectionless, but Arthur picks up on it, and remembers the eager to please sixteen year old that served under him for the last three months of his last tour, all long limbs and awkward grace.

‘What’s your name, kid?’

‘Eames, sir.’

‘Eames.’ Arthur repeats it, looks back at Daniel, scarlet soaking the dirt and concrete floor of the alley. Things slowly lock into place. ‘You still serving?’

‘No sir. Got out maybe three years ago.’ Arthur chews his lip again, reaches into his pocket where there’s a crumpled piece of paper.

‘You want a job?’

Eames shrugs, half smiles. ‘What do I have to do?’

**_Now_ **

Arthur was always going to outgrow the Looper business. Or at least, that side of it.

The thing about working with time travel is that eventually, you catch up to the future. Time travel is invented in 2052, and he’s effectively out of a job. So he upgrades. Starts working on the other side of the divide, raises up through the ranks of the Chicago mob by doing what he knows best; killing people. He’s famous, underground, and Eames with him, makes sure people know their names, know their faces. In four years, he’s in charge of everything that matters.

He’s killed thirty four people personally, Eames more than double that, mostly on Arthur’s orders.

There’s a crumpled piece of paper in his pocket, read so many times it’s torn and faded, gone through the wash twice, and he could recite it in his sleep, but he still keeps it. He’s not sure why.

He has five years, almost to the day.

-

He’s not sure when fucking Eames stopped being something he did when they were both drunk or angry or both, not sure when it turned into waking up in the morning and Eames is still there, sprawled across most of the bed, into sharing showers and making breakfast together.

He knows it’s a bad idea, has long since worked out the link between Daniel and Eames, worked out what the date means, worked out that he can’t change how it happens. He doesn’t stop though. Isn’t sure why, just that he and Eames fit together in some twisted way, and somewhere in the past seven years they grew together and just kind of stopped caring.

He knows it’s just going to make things harder, in the end, but he also knows it has to happen. Like he knows that the battered gun that he keeps at the small of his back belongs to no one, really, but he knows what he has to do with it. Knows that he doesn’t like it, doesn’t want to like it, but is going to do it anyway, because he doesn’t know a lot about how time travel works, but he knows a fucking self-fulfilling prophecy when he hears one.

-

When he wakes up that morning, he knows. It settles in his sternum, heavy like the gun in his holster, like the gun at the small of his back, like the knife in his boot.

He wakes up that morning, and knows that in less than twelve hours, he’s sending Eames to die.


End file.
